Free The Ground Rules by Roya Carmen

us about your kids.”
    Yes, you are married with kids, remember?
    A smile lights up her face. “Well, Ashton is just like his father, a real whiz.” She rolls her eyes, like this trait irritates her somehow. “They spend hours building things, gadgets.”
    “It looks like you have two nerds on your hands,” I tease.
    She laughs. “I do.”
    Weston smiles in my direction, taking it all in stride.
    “And Lizzie’s my little girly-girl. We do everything together…shopping, shows, mani-pedis.”
    “Sounds fabulous,” I say, realizing I’ve never gone for a mani-pedi with my girls. We should try it out sometime.
    “But Weston spends a lot of time with her too. He’s such a good dad.” Somehow, that’s easy to believe. He seems tenderhearted. I’m not sure why—maybe it’s just intuition.
    “When she was little, they’d play tea party for hours.”
    I smile at the vision—absolutely adorable. I look over at him, and he averts his gaze, a sweet smile on his face. I’m not sure he likes all this talk about him.
    “Our two girls love to have tea parties too,” I tell them, redirecting the focus. “We usually have iced tea and animal crackers.”
    So the conversation goes, the usual small talk—nothing electrifying. But somehow, there seems to be a charge in the air. My intuition is telling me we should all be very careful.
    Learning so much about Weston and Bridget, and the reality of their lives, makes whatever happened between Weston and I seem insubstantial.
    Which is a good thing.
    A great thing.

    The gallery décor is very “urban country”—exposed brick walls, large reclaimed wood beams, ultra modern chrome light fixtures, and white walls accentuated with bursts of color as far as the eye can see. Wine is flowing, and conversations are filling the room. I’ve dressed appropriately—it seems almost everyone is wearing black. I spot a woman in red, and my gaze is drawn to her, like the focal point in a painting.
    The artwork is incredible—rich colors, impressionist style, splatters and diluted washes mixing together beautifully. It’s messy and loose and somehow breathtaking. This is what true talent is, I muse, standing next to a painting of an old man pulling a rickshaw, the sun beaming hard on his back. I’m in awe. Gwen and I take a watercolor class on Saturday mornings, but I am nowhere as good as this, and I realize I never will be. It’s an innate talent I just don’t have. I try too hard, according to my teacher. I need to loosen up, she says. Apparently, it comes from the soul.
    Bridget spots her friend and practically runs to her. “Hi, Simone. These are fantastic,” she says, hugging her delicately, trying not to spill her wine glass.
    “Thanks for coming, Bridget,” Simone says. “Where’s Weston?”
    “Somewhere,” Bridget tells her, and we all turn and scan the gallery.
    He’s standing there by his lonesome, staring at a piece, glass of wine in hand, looking very introspective.
    “That suit is fabulous on him,” Simone says without reserve. Obviously these two are close.
    “I know…right?” Bridget agrees with a sly smile. “And lucky me, I get to take it off tonight,” she adds, laughing.
    They both giggle like junior high school girls, and I want to vomit a little.
    Yeah, I’m jealous.
    I’m jealous she gets to take that suit off. There is something fundamentally wrong with me, I realize as I gaze at the colorful paintings lining the walls.
    “Oh my God,” Simone suddenly blurts out. “Who is he talking to? He’s gorgeous.”
    I peel my eyes off the paintings and turn my attention back to Weston. He and Gabe seem to be in deep conversation. What could they be talking about?
    Bridget laughs under her breath. “That’s Gabe, a friend of ours,” Bridget answers. “Mirella’s husband,” she adds. “I’m sorry I haven’t introduced you two.”
    Simone offers her hand, and I notice how beautiful she is, European features, dark complexion, long silky